


By a cat’s whiskers

by Holde_Maid



Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Gen, Hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 13:38:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holde_Maid/pseuds/Holde_Maid
Summary: Methos is a doctor once more and has a special patient: Joe Dawson.The usual things apply: Highlander belongs to Davis/Panzer and possibly others, not to me. Of course I am not making money off this.





	By a cat’s whiskers

Finally Methos was a doctor yet again. He hadn’t chosen to return to the medical profession for nothing. Dawson was mortal, his years were counted, and there were not all that many hospitals he could end up in. So Methos had set his plan in motion with a view to having a foot in the door of each of them.  
It had worked out well. To his relief, Joe was appreciative. And his faculties were still relatively sharp. That meant they got to talk. Methos had arranged things so Joe got a room to himself, so they could _really_ talk.

  
Today, however, was a difficult day – not in terms of Joe’s mental capacity, but rather his soul. Apparently, the mortal had finally realised why, exactly, the Immortal was spending every free moment with Joe, slowly having increased their amount of time together as the octagenarian’s health had deteriorated.  
Usually they talked, joked, or even sang together. Not so today. Joe was silent. Preoccupied. Catty. So Methos left the room, casually remarking that he’d be back in a moment. When he returned, he was carrying a small gift-box.  
Joe’s eyes followed his every motion as he sat, slid off his shoes, and relaxed in his chair, his feet resting on Joe’s bed. The gift-box sat in his lap. Joe eyed it, then Methos, then the box again. Still he said nothing.  
Methos waited patiently.

  
A few minutes later, Joe finally told him, “I wondered if you were bringing me new pills, but the box is too showy. - How bad is it? What do the charts say?”  
“The charts are not telling. But I can see you’ve stopped fighting.”  
The old man forced the answer out through his teeth, “Got nothing to fight for.”  
“Then find something,” Methos growled.  
Joe shook his head. “Too late now.”  
“Are friends not enough? Does it always have to be true love?”  
The look Joe gave him expressed the equivalent of several expletives.  
“Well, then I guess it’s time.” He handed Joe the gift-box. “Happy belated birthday. Or something. Whatever.” His voice was honeyed grit.

  
Joe opened the box. He took out the little shred of paper and held it up. It showed a skull and a sketchy scythe. Dawson didn’t waste his breath and just arched his eyebrows questioningly.  
“Death,” Methos explained. “It’s a cupon. Just in case you decide you need it.”  
Joe scoffed. “You could just have brought me a gun.”  
“Don’t be stupid, that’s not a good way to go.” Methos had been shot often enough to know. He shrugged, continuing, “There are few painless ways of dying. I’ve done a lot of research to find one that does not involve scuba-diving.” The research had been a trial-and-error thing requiring about 20 deaths of his own. He smiled lop-sidedly. “Hence the cupon.”  
Joe’s voice was hoarse, broken. “Not there yet.” He lifted his gaze from the gift he had been fingering thoughtfully. Their eyes met. “I got so many regrets, Methos.” His features did not reflect the emotion, but there were tears in his eyes. “That’s the only thing that keeps me around. Thinking that I might somehow find a way to make up for at least one of them.”  
“Been there,” Methos commented with a deliberate helping of derision. “Find a better reason.” He rose and kissed Joe Dawson’s forehead. I’ll see you tomorrow. Until then,…” He let his tone grow threatening. “…find a bloody reason. Got that?”  
“Or what?” came the defiant answer.   
Now softspoken, Methos retorted, “Or be a coward who does not even try.”  
Joe scoffed, but there was a faint trace of amusement in his expression that gave Methos a little more confidence. “Was that the whole point about your offer?”

  
Methos shook his head. “The point is Duncan’s devastated at seeing you go down the drain of your own account.”  
“Mac?” Joe looked aghast.  
“Of course, you stupid oaf! Did you think he was blind, dumb and then some?”  
Joe didn’t answer. Good, finally something had gotten through.  
“He had even considered,” Methos pursued, “making a similar offer, and you know how much more damage it would do to him than to me.”  
Joe cleared his throat as he put the little coupon back into its box. “I…” He slumped back into his pillow. “I’m scared, Methos. I’m scared of fighting an endless fight.”  
Methos stepped closer again, laid his long fingers on the box and closed it. “It won’t be endless, Joseph.” He saw Dawson’s eyes flicker with emotion and drew back. He sat on his chair, propping up his feet comfortably again. “Once I had to cross half the Sahara and died seventeen times doing it. It was worth it, and not just because it ensured my freedom. I learned a myriad of things. About the desert, of course, but also about myself. I understand the fear that you feel.”  
Joe scoffed yet again. “Yeah, sure.”  
“I don’t understand physical ageing, I’ll give you that,” Methos acknowledged. “Still. I mean what else gives you a damper,” he continued in a light tone, “like drowning in a bloody wadi after having died five times already, and knowing that the water is taking you back by miles and miles?”  
Joe was looking at him with familiar distrust.  
“No,” Methos replied to the obvious suspicion. “I didn’t make that up. When it rains in the desert, it rains hard. The flood has to go somewhere, since the ground is not prepared to swallow it up. Murphy’s law struck again, that’s all.”  
Joe grunted in assent.  
Silence manifested between them, comfy like a curled-up cat.

  
At length Methos broke it with a sigh. “You can’t go yet. I have so much to tell you.”  
He rose and left the room. Outside he stood and waited. After five seconds or so, Joe’s thunderous curse brought a grin to his lips. He had got him by the short and curlies. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but chances were it would keep Joe alive.


End file.
